The Sisters of Versailles (15 page)

“How would you know?” I snap back, my impatience making me imprudent.

He raises one eyebrow in shock. For a moment I think he is going to strike me, then he chuckles and picks something out of his teeth and flicks it in the fire.

“You’ve changed,” he says, and I can do nothing but stare at him—he never noticed me before, never even looked at me,
and now here he is examining me as he would his favorite horse. When did he become so observant? Curses! Why won’t he just go?

“So who is waiting for you, little one?” he says, mocking me. He pushes me back down on the sofa and bats my head lightly from side to side. “You want me to leave. I can tell it, I can sense it. I know women.” He leers at me. “You’re like a hare in heat.” I flush and my chin trembles. I mustn’t cry.

“Ha! But it’s not Puysieux, the whole world knows that.”

“I had no idea you followed my movements with such interest,” I say bitterly. Why won’t he go? Oh, how I hate this man who is my husband.

“You’re my wife, fool,” he growls, and impatience wells up in me.

“Oh, let me go, let me go,” I cry, and to my horror I realize I have spoken out loud.

“No.”

I start crying in frustration, and then I say what I know I shouldn’t, but at that moment I have to:

“You can’t keep me from the king,” I sob. “He’ll have you sent away. You’ll be sent to . . . to . . .” I can’t think of anywhere that is far enough for this man to go. “. . . Louisiana.”

“The king?” snarls Louis-Alexandre. “What does he have to do with you?”

But I have already said it, and why not? “It’s true,” I sob. “It’s the king. There, that’s who I am going to. He . . . he loves me . . . loves patchouli.”

There is a short silence then Louis-Alexandre throws back his head and roars with laughter. He slaps his knee and continues guffawing in glee.

“Our king! That namby milksop . . . Now,” he says sharply, “don’t go telling him I just said that. But it makes sense, he hardly takes a whiz without Fleury telling him to, and I was always curious as to why that virgin monk was so interested in you.”

“Fleury has nothing to do with this,” I say stiffly. I had not
thought my husband so shrewd, but tonight he is a fox. A hateful, cunning fox.

I keep my head bowed, following his movements around the room from beneath my lashes. He rubs his breeches then laughs. “Eat from the same plate as the king—now that would be a tale for my regiment, I tell you. But no. I have no desire. No desire at all, madame.” I don’t know why those words cut me, but they do. I continue crying.

“I wonder if all this was behind my promotion last year,” he muses on. “And when His Majesty spoke to me in June, he complimented me on my horse: ‘A fine horse,’ he said, ‘a fine horse with strong legs.’ Hmm.”

My husband pulls me up from the sofa. “But don’t let me keep you, madame, don’t let me keep you from your duty. Why, I am as loyal a subject as any, and I only aim to please. Hie, hie to the king with your patchouli stink and your red-rosed cheeks. This is wonderful news, wonderful. Gontaut has a set of four white horses I have had my eye on for a long time now . . . I wager he will sell them to me for cheap once he knows.”

“Don’t tell anyone!” I whisper in horror.

He shrugs. “Perhaps not. You must tell me what makes the most sense, little one. You have the power now.” He laughs hoarsely and pours the last of the wine into his glass. “Those horses are such handsome beasts—the purest white! Great good fortune. I knew I would be the one to restore the family fortunes. I am a man of destiny, Louise,” he slurs, and sits down heavily. I see a small, ugly man before me, insignificant. I pull my cloak around me and slip out into the corridor where Bachelier waits.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I whisper as I trail along behind him.

Behind me I hear Louis-Alexandre calling out in the corridor for someone to bring him the finest bottle of gin this side of Jamaica.

The rumors continue, isolated notes of a music that soon blend into a song. Too many people are coming at me with sly looks, hoping that I might confirm what it is they think they know.

“Are you not missing Puysieux? So long since he has been gone!”

“I see your husband driving a new carriage with four white horses. Such an extravagance—why is that?”

“We so rarely see you at suppers at Madame de Villars’ anymore. They say you are always at the little suppers with the king? You are fortunate indeed to always be so included . . .”

“The Bible says the meek shall inherit—what do
you
make of that, Louise?”

Then that fateful night, scarcely a month after my husband found out. That afternoon there was an official dinner for the Spanish ambassador but my duties with the queen did not require me to attend. When Bachelier came later with the summons, I donned the brown hooded cloak and followed him through the back rooms and corridors; late at night the candles are few and the way is dark. As we neared the king’s rooms Bachelier suddenly grabbed me by the arm and swung me around, saying I must be careful or people would see me. My hood fell off with the force of his swing and the people lounging outside the doors saw me clearly.

Instead of turning around and pretending we were not there for the king, Bachelier ushered me through the doors, and into infamy. By morning the entire palace knew. The gates of gossip were flung wide open and then they all came to me, to greet me, welcome me, reproach me, beg me, smile at me, and reproach me again.

Everyone, simply everyone, is personally offended that I chose not to share the news of my good fortune with them. Gilette is scarcely speaking to me and the Pious Pack of ladies has completely shunned me. Not that I care overly much about them, but I do not like being called a pincushion or a chipped vase every time I pass one of them in the corridors.

So what I dreamed and dreaded has now come true. Charolais’s words haunt me:
Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

Impossible. I think. Louis adores me. Why should it matter if the whole world knows?

Diane

CONVENT OF PORT-ROYAL

1737

T
oday Pauline found out something extraordinary! The news caused her to scream and run out of the room and down to the ends of the convent garden, past the kitchens and the horses, all the way to a small apple orchard at the edge of the smelly stream. I follow her outside though it’s rather cold and muddy and I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.

I approach her cautiously; sometimes Pauline is rather terrifying. She stomps on a fallen apple and brown goo splatters up her skirts.

“Bitch! Judas! Cain! Anyone who ever betrayed anyone!”

Pauline is upset because we have just found out that Louise is the mistress of the King of France. Our Louise! Imagine that! She’s pretty, certainly prettier than Pauline or I, but it is hard to imagine her so beautiful that a king would fall in love with her. The king can have any woman he wants . . . well, perhaps not a nun or mother superior, but anyone else, so you would think he would choose the most beautiful woman in France.

“Dee Dee, they have been together for
years
!” She stomps on another apple. Another brown stain on her skirt.

“Your skirt, you should be careful—”

“She is the mistress of the most powerful man in France, in the
world
, yet she leaves us languishing here at this convent. Do you know what sort of marriages she should have made for us? Do you have any idea the power she has?”

It’s strange to
think of Louise as powerful. Pauline could certainly be powerful, but Louise? She was always so meek and mild in the nursery.

“I will never, ever forgive her! Never, never! God DAMN it!”

“Pauline!”

She takes a handful of brown apples and flings them against a tree trunk. I know she wishes the tree were Louise. I’ve never seen her this angry, her face red and her hair bristling against her cap. Now she is hitting the tree trunk with her hands.

“Pauline! Stop it! You’re scaring me!”

“Delilah!” she cries, spent, and crumples on top of a mess of rotten apples. “I’m going to shred all her letters, all her stupid letters with her stupid lies and excuses. I’m going to tear them apart. But I will wish it was her I was tearing apart.”

I’m so shocked I can’t even remonstrate.

Well, Pauline is very resilient, like a cockroach that you can squash but it still survives. I suppose I shouldn’t compare my sister to a cockroach; I should say instead she is very resilient, like . . . a . . . a resilient thing. Quickly she turns the news to her advantage.

“Now that Louise is the royal favorite, she can no longer use the excuses of finance or propriety to keep us here. She can do anything she wishes.”

We are sitting in our room at the convent the next morning, drinking coffee and eating our breakfast buns. Madame de Dray joins us and brings a tray of candied pears, a gift from her daughter, to contribute to our meal. Pauline has laid out Louise’s letters over the bed; she has not shredded them. Not yet.

“She won’t have a choice now—she will have to invite me.”

“Why do you say that?” inquires Madame de Dray. She motions for me to take another slice of pear and I do, eagerly.

“Well, her excuses always were no money and that it would be improper. Now I know she must have masses of money, and impropriety should not be her concern.”

“An excellent point, my friend,” says Madame de Dray.

“So here’s what I am thinking. I have a plan.”

Both Madame de Dray and I put down our cups and turn our full attention to her. Pauline likes to make plans—she often says she wishes she were a general and not a girl with no money or prospects. Mother Superior says she has a mind as sharp as a goat’s.

“I now realize that Louise being the king’s mistress is simply perfect news. I shall be invited to Versailles, I am determined. And then, once I am at Court, I shall use Louise’s proximity to the king to enchant him and steal him away—it should not be very hard. If boring Louise can capture the king’s heart, then so can I.”

Pauline often astounds me, but this is the most astounding thing she has ever said. Yet she’s not finished.

“Through the king, I will become the most powerful woman in France and I shall rule the Court, and the country. That will be my route to power.”

I laugh nervously and almost choke on my pear. I always laugh when I don’t know what to say.

Madame de Dray raises her eyebrows. “Big words,” she says. “Big words, my dear. You are indeed a force of nature.”

“A force of nature?” I ask, quickly taking the last slice of candied pear while Pauline is lost in her dreams. “What’s that?”

Madame de Dray considers. She has a narrow face and gray skin that makes her look as though she is on the verge of death. That, and the black wool gown she always wears. “A force of nature is something that cannot be stopped. Like a great wind or a fierce rain that floods the land.”

She continues in her careful, modulated voice: “It can be used to describe a person of great determination. Pauline is a very determined woman. And I believe determination to be the greatest gift of all. Greater even than beauty, intelligence, or cunning. Determination matters most.”

She repeats Pauline’s words slowly, wonderingly: “Go to Versailles, meet the king, take him away from your sister, become his mistress, and rule France through him. Yes, Pauline, I believe you
will
do that.”

I am not sure what I think of this plan. “What about Louise?” I ask. Pauline always says Louise is silly and stupid, but surely she must still love her? Her plan sounds rather cruel. It doesn’t sound sisterly at all. Not at all
sororal
, as Zélie would say.

Pauline snorts: “Louise loves me, as I love her.” Then she smiles and says Louise will
want
family around her now, because everyone knows Versailles is a nest of vipers and royal favorites are never safe. Now that the secret is out, someone might even try to poison our sister.

Poison? Perhaps Pauline going to Court is a good idea; she can protect Louise.